


brighter than the brightest stars

by seekwill



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Lingerie, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, Smut, Strap-Ons, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill
Summary: “What,” said Crowley, the hinges of her jaw suddenly not quite working the way they should, “are you wearing?”Aziraphale startled and immediately drew the open button up pyjama top around her. “Oh, you know. Nothing. Nothing of note. Pyjamas.”It wasn’t bright enough to see it, but Crowley could hear the blush on Aziraphale’s voice. But what Crowley had seen in the dull moonlight wasn’t even in the same ballpark as nothing of note. She groped wildly for the lightswitch behind her, her mouth cracking into a grin.-When 20-year-old Crowley sees Aziraphale for the very first time she's piss drunk, and backed by a chorus of absolute menaces who fancied themselves her friends. An inauspicious start grows into something miraculous. Years after their first meeting, Aziraphale still manages to surprise her.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 494





	brighter than the brightest stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheKnittingJedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/gifts).



> Happy birthday, kind and lovely friend.
> 
> Many thanks to Mussimm for the quick beta.

Antonia Crowley slipped behind the wheel of her Bentley, tipped her head back onto the headrest and sighed with relief. A brutal week of meetings, done. It was later than she wanted it to be, she’d promised Aziraphale she’d be home for dinner and that was absolutely not going to happen now, unless Aziraphale wanted to eat at ten o’clock which she almost certainly would not. She had her habits, and it was what Crowley loved about her, though at the moment she did wish she were a little more flexible.

She wished Aziraphale had agreed to come into the city for the week with her, during the meetings. Normally Crowley worked from home like Aziraphale did, and they’d have lunch together, dinner. Crowley would slither into Aziraphale’s study and bother her with roving hands whenever she was bored, Aziraphale chiding her but clearly enjoying it.

Crowley didn’t get a lot done at home, but she was an executive, had been with the company for years and was loudly flirting with the idea of early retirement. No one really expected her to get much done anymore. Except, of course, during Hell Week, before the investors meeting, when it was all hands on deck at the head office and Crowley booked a week at the Ritz to make that miserable week bearable.

She’d begged Aziraphale to go. “Please, angel. I know how much you like hotels. You can have a spa day, we’ll have dinner in the dining room every night, or room service. C’mon, please?” She’d wrapped her arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind, pressing her chin into the softly sloped shoulder as Aziraphale stood over her workbench restoring a seventeenth century bible. 

“You will be at that office all hours. We won’t have dinner together once,” said Aziraphale unmoved, eyes glued to her work. “I know what that company expects from you when you’re there. I’ll stay here so at least I can get some work done.”

And in the face of Crowley’s incessant needling, she had.

Crowley pulled out of the parking garage and glanced at the phone in the stand on the dashboard. 

“Siri,” she said, checking for pedestrians, prepared to run them over in her eagerness to get home, “call Aziraphale.”

“Calling Aziraphale,” chirped Siri, and the phone rang twice.

“Crowley!”

They had literally spoken that morning but Crowley couldn’t get over how her wife’s voice invoked the same peaches and cream stir deep in her belly that it always had, from the moment they met.

“Hiya angel, about dinner…”

“You’re only just leaving now, aren’t you?” The disappointment in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s heart ache. 

“I’m so sorry, love. They wouldn’t let us go.” She swung out onto a main thoroughfare and an Uber honked from behind her. She silently raised her middle finger in salute. “I’m coming home soon as I can.”

“You better. I’ll put a plate in the fridge for you, for when you’re home?”

“You better,” Crowley repeated. “What did you miracle up today?”

“Pumpkin ravioli with sausage.”

Crowley sighed wistfully. “Homemade pasta, I bet.”

Aziraphale made a little hum of confirmation.

“You’re killing me, angel. My mouth is watering.” 

More traffic. A BMW tried to cut in front of her and she pressed on the gas aggressively, forcing the Bentley ahead. She should have taken the train. What a nightmare.

“Well, there’s plenty for when you get home.”

Crowley could picture it perfectly. She’d roll up to the cottage, there’d be a light on in the kitchen, illuminating a pristine countertop. Crowley had been the clean one in the beginning but since moving to the cottage Aziraphale had been instilled with a certain pride of place, had kept it up marvelously, sidelining Crowley’s attempts to help at every opportunity. 

The fridge would have homemade pasta, but also would be stocked with all the little things Crowley missed during her week away. Farm fresh eggs from the neighbours, handmade pickle from the spot in the village. There’d be some kind of handwritten note on the container with the pasta. _Welcome home, my dearest more darling girl._ And if Crowley was home early enough Aziraphale would be up waiting for her in the living room, a hideous tartan blanket over her knees and a book in hand, and beaming up at Crowley when she entered. The finale of this revery was less common as they got older. Aziraphale was always early to bed, early to rise.

“Wait up for me?” Crowley asked, edging into a spot between a lorry and a Ford Fiesta that shouldn’t have fit the Bentley, but it did but sheer force of will.

“I’ll give it my very best,” she crooned. “Drive safe, please, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, alright,” conceded Crowley. “Love you, angel.”

“I love you, Crowley. See you shortly.”

* * *

They met at a bus stop outside the old city walls of York. Crowley had been stumbling out of a pub with her mates when she’d laid eyes on her. Even in the rain Aziraphale was a beacon under a streetlight. Her curls somehow glowing even though it was nearing midnight. She held her umbrella at a strange angle, her arms crossed over her chest as she rubbed her upper arms. It was November but she wasn’t wearing a coat.

Crowley stopped dead in her tracks as her friends trundled past.

“Oi,” called Ligur, holding up Hastur who had drank far too much and really needed a lie down. “What’s the problem? You coming or not?”

Crowley was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, like a… whatever is drawn to a whatever. She couldn’t stop her feet, and her big dumb mouth.

“Lose your coat?” she said, feeling not as sober as she’d like and yelling over the crash of passing cars on slick roads.

The woman, or girl - they’d been girls then, really - looked over, startled, and her eyes were really fucking blue. Her pink mouth dropped open.

“Er,” she started, looking up into Crowley’s eyes, protected by sunglasses. Then she muttered something Crowley couldn’t hear.

“What?” asked Crowley, leaning into the girl’s space more than was socially acceptable for a stranger.

“I gave it away!” the blonde cried. “There was a woman and she just looked so cold in the rain and she didn’t seem to have anywhere to go.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. So, a literal angel then. Alright. “Wow.”

“My parents are going to have me hanged,” said the woman nervously, not at all pleased. “It was a Christmas gift, that coat. But, in this weather…”

“I can’t see how they’d be mad at you, to do a nice thing like that,” said Crowley, finally finding her brain. It was then she realized that she was no longer being pelted by rain. The girl had shifted the umbrella to hold it over both of them.

“You think?” she asked, biting her plump lower lip.

Crowley was possessed with the sudden impulse to bite that pretty lip herself. “Yeah, I’d say. Pretty crummy parents otherwise.”

The girl shrugged, but never took her eyes from Crowley’s face, until -

“Oh, that’s my bus!” She hopped to the curb and it pulled over. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, “uh, um…”

“Toni,” supplied Crowley, who was attempting to go by Toni those days but it never stuck.

“Toni,” she said in a voice that could melt butter, then she tossed Crowley her umbrella (which she caught, but not gracefully, and the bus doors closed, and it pulled away.

Crowley watched it disappear around the corner, then was suddenly brought back to earth by the hollering of her incredibly stupid friends.

“That your new girlfriend, Crowley?” yelled Beez, pretending to hump Dagon who shoved them off, screaming with laughter.

“Didn’t know you were so into blondes!” Called Ligur, who was holding Hastur’s hair back as he hurled into a bush.

As Crowley rejoined them, holding the umbrella, her new prize, far away from the human nightmares she called her friends. 

Dagon looped her arm around Crowley’s neck. “She had a nice arse though, didja see?”

“Shut up!” Crowley yelled into the night, throwing her head back and deeply annoyed that her friends were one, being complete terrors, and two, distracting her from replaying the scenario over again and again and again until she was in her bed and falling asleep. 

They were all hungover for a full 24 hours afterwards.

* * *

Some petrol truck had rolled over on the M23 and the Bentley was bumper to bumper with a million other cars filled with people trying to get home to the country from London on a summer afternoon on Friday. She looked over at the clock on the dash. Nine o’clock, and she was still at least an hour away, and that was if the traffic suddenly lifted and a clear motorway lay ahead of her.

Crowley smacked the steering wheel with her palms and groaned. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be snuggled next to Aziraphale watching a rerun of A _bsolutely Fabulous_ and sharing a bottle of wine in their pyjamas.

Shit, they’d gotten boring, hadn’t they?

But if boring made them so bloody happy, then she supposed that was alright.

* * *

Crowley saw her again not a month later, coming out of the library on campus when Crowley was crossing from one class to another. She had a jacket that time, the angel, and her curls peeked out from under a bobble hat. Her hair’d been longer then, down her back. In spite of the grey almost-winter day, the curls gleamed. Crowley didn’t know how that was possible.

Again, like the first time, her feet took off towards the girl without Crowley’s brain playing any role at all. 

“Hi,” she called like a big idiot from the bottom of the library stairs.

When the angel looked over to Crowley, her face split into a grin that made Crowley want to climb her like a tree. “Oh! Toni, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Crowley’s heart nearly grew outside of her chest. She’d remembered her name. A two minute encounter at a bus stop and she’d remembered her name.

“Sort of?” The angel said with raised eyebrows as she reached Crowley at the bottom of the steps.

“Yeah, was trying it out. Friends call me Crowley.” Before the angel could speak, Crowley gestured at the other woman. “See you’ve gotten a new coat.”

The angel looked down, smoothed out the lapel. “Ah, yes. Courtesy of the charity shop for the humane society. Doesn’t quite fit, but it’ll have to do.”

The buttons on the front of the coat strained just a little, mostly in the region of the angel’s bust, which Crowley caught herself staring at. Swiftly she brought her eyes back to the angel’s face, which was as lovely as she’d remembered it and did not give off any sign of recognition of Crowley’s being a filthy lech.

“Humane society, eh?” said Crowley, already regretting the joke she was about to make. “Coat’s probably made from dogs. Cruella de Ville style.”

“Crowley!” the angel cried, clutching her jacket around herself, scandalised, but also, Crowley could see, deeply delighted. “This coat is from Marks & Spencer, I’ll have you know. The tag says.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” said Crowley slyly. 

The angel laughed and Crowley wanted to take that sound and put it in a jar. Stick it in her pocket. Carry it around for shit days when she needed the kind of pick me up that even a whiskey couldn’t provide.

“So, you a student here then?” asked Crowley, desperate to extend the interaction.

“Yes, graduate student. Medieval studies and… and oh, where are my manners?” The angel briefly looked distraught, extended her hand to Crowley. “I’m Aziraphale. So pleased to have met you.”

Crowley took her hand and it was soft, and warm, and everything Crowley wasn’t.

“I’m going to get a tea or cocoa or something,” said Crowley, surprised at her own boldness. “Wanna come? Also, I need to give you back your umbrella.”

Aziraphale’s lovely blue eyes widened. “Oh, well, alright. Doesn’t that sound nice on a cold day like this.”

Crowley nodded, and let Aziraphale have her hand back. She’d have to skip class for this, but she already knew it was worth it.

* * *

Crowley peeled off the motorway. She’d just have to take the country roads. Not ideal, not late at night when it was already black out and three quarters of these roads didn’t bother with any kind of lighting, but desperate times, and all that.

She glanced over to the pink box on the passenger seat. Tarts from that little bakery around the corner from where she and Aziraphale had lived once upon a time. Crowley would pop down on a Saturday morning and bring something back for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would act surprised every single time. Like she couldn’t believe her luck. Like Crowley wasn’t the luckiest one.

Crowley had sent some intern out mid-day, thrust banknotes into their shaking palms and told them to get the most decadent looking pastries the place had on offer. Crowley had imagined surprising Aziraphale with dessert. Now she didn’t even know if she’d be awake.

She sighed dramatically for her own benefit, and checked her GPS again for directions.

* * *

It was a kind of magic how Crowley kept showing up where Aziraphale was, and vice versa, even though they ran in different crowds.

Crowley’s friends were a bunch of working class crust punks who had somehow found their way into higher education by virtue of being resourceful. Aziraphale typically ran with a more sedate (read, boring) crew of bible thumpers.

Whenever Crowley saw her with them, Aziraphale never seemed quite comfortable. She kept fairly quiet, and Crowley knew once she got Aziraphale alone she couldn’t shut her up. Crowley loved it. She loved how candid and funny Aziraphale was. How kind. She loved how when she was really excited her hands would flutter about and she would unselfconsciously touch Crowley’s hand or arm in enthusiasm. But sometimes the touch was entirely conscious, thoughtful, weighted, and it made Crowley feel boneless.

Then there was the way Aziraphale looked at her sometimes, almost confused. Crowley couldn’t place it. She only caught Aziraphale doing it when she thought Crowley was otherwise engaged in something, researching for an assignment or tidying up her flat. It was like Aziraphale was always on the verge of asking a question, trying to find the right moment to let her query known.

After a few times of Crowley saying “What’re you looking at?” and Aziraphale saying “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Crowley gave up asking, but those looks remained, through the winter and into the spring.

Crowley had been in love with Aziraphale since fairly early on, if not from the first time they’d met. Sometimes she thought that maybe Aziraphale could feel something too, but there was a line Aziraphale couldn’t, wouldn’t or simply didn’t want to cross. Crowley was a friend. Crowley was her “best friend,” she would say firmly. Maybe that would have to be enough.

Or, it would’ve been, had it not been for Crowley’s friends.

“This is an intervention!” yelled Beelzebub, pulling Crowley’s chair away from her desk, surprisingly strong for someone who weighed ninety pounds soaking wet.

“An intervention from what? Getting my degree?” Crowley was halfway through the final paper she needed to submit to graduate and she’d been on a roll. 

“From you moping about with weird sad goo-goo eyes every single time Saint Aziraphale goes back to her own flat.”

Crowley spun in her chair, only to be confronted by Dagon, Hastur, and Ligur hovering at the doorway of her bedroom. “I do _not_ make sad goo-goo eyes! That’s more of a Hastur thing.”

“Oi!” Hastur yelled from his place behind Ligur.

“You do, and it’s disgusting, and you need to get it together.” Beelzebub flopped over onto Crowley’s bed, wrinkling the duvet more than Crowley thought possible. 

Her friends tumbled into the room.

“She obviously doesn’t have a problem with queers,” said Ligur. “Because she’s hanging about here all the time.”

“I’ve asked around. She’s not dating guys,” said Dagon.

“Yeah, I knew _that_ ,” snipped Crowley, wondering who in the hell Dagon was asking for intel on Aziraphale.

“But primarily,” said Beelzebub, lounging on Crowley’s bed like they owned it, “we know she likes you because she is also making sad goo-goo eyes whenever she’s with you. It’s pathetic.”

Crowley shook her head. “One, she doesn’t. Two, how is any of this your fucking business?”

“S’my business because you’re sad and horny and it’s messing up the vibe of the flat. You need to figure it out before it starts catching.”

“Silly me, thought it might be because you cared about me or something.” Crowley tried to turn back to her work, hoping her flatmates would get the hint.

“If you don’t do anything about this you’re gunna regret it.”

Surprised, Crowley turned back. That was a more sincere tone than she was used to Dagon taking.

“I’m not, like, a love expert or anything, but it’s obvious to all of us, except maybe the two of you, that something is going on. It’s not easy to find someone. Don’t be an idiot and walk away at the end of the term because you’re too chickenshit to even try.” At the end of her speech Dagon crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

“Wow, Dagon… I didn’t -”

“Also,” Dagon interrupted, “have you seen that arse? Impeccable.”

Crowley whipped a shirt that had been hanging over the chair at her. “Get out! All of you. I’m going to fail and it’s going to be your fault!”

They all clambered out. Beelzebub was last, and before they slammed the door shut, they said, “Don’t be a fucking coward.”

Two weeks later they threw a party to commemorate the end of term, the kind of blowout that would decimate the place, and have the landlord threatening to throw them out (again). But they were graduating, they’d all survived, and that deserved some celebration. Aziraphale had gamely come and brought her friend Michael from bible study which was baffling, but they’d conveniently split off from one another as soon as they’d arrived.

Crowley had coaxed Aziraphale to the roof, which had been an awful lot of work as Aziraphale had to be heavily cajoled into anything that might possibly be against the rules, even if Crowley guaranteed that she’d enjoy the thing once she did it. 

It wasn’t that there was much of a view from the roof, but it was a mite quieter up there, and the hollering and drunken strangers in the flat made Crowley vibrate with anxiety.

The sky was clear that night. Full moon and a sky full of stars. There was a chill in the air, but not enough that either of them had felt the need to take their jackets.

Crowley had actually written something. Written words on paper and had memorized them. She’d stood in front of the mirror and rehearsed it and had been overheard by Hastur who had enjoyed quoting lines back to her for several days.

But then she looked at Aziraphale, with her beautiful hair and soft smile. Beige tartan trousers (Dagon was right about her arse, holy _fuck_ ) and cozy blue sweater. Lovely warm hands and bright eyes. Absolutely everything about her all the time. And what came out of Crowley’s mouth was, “I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale froze, looking out over the sea of roofs. Her normally dancing hands still at her sides. She made no move. Had she even heard?

Was Crowley even capable of saying it again?

There was a long silence, in which Crowley’s heart fell out of her. 

“We should go back in. It’s cold,” muttered Crowley. She’d fucked it up. Her stupid friends were wrong and she’d fucked it up. Crowley was half over the side of the roof when Aziraphale’s hand closed around her forearm.

Her eyes were shining with tears. “Are you really?” she asked, quiet. Stunned.

Crowley swallowed. “Yeah.”

Then Aziraphale kissed her, put her mouth on Crowley’s mouth and somehow Crowley hadn’t gotten that far. But she touched Aziraphale’s cheeks and wrapped her curls around her fingers.

And nothing was the same after that.

* * *

Crowley stopped for petrol.

She hadn’t wanted to stop in the city, and she could probably get the rest of the way home on what was left in the tank, but then there wouldn’t be much for tomorrow, and Crowley wanted to take Aziraphale for brunch, maybe go down to the beach and watch people throw sticks to their dogs. A real wild day in the South Downs.

Then Aziraphale would make dinner and Crowley would complain about the week and her dumb coworkers and then maybe Dagon and Michael would call and they’d have a speakerphone catch-up where it was mostly Michael bragging about her and Dagon’s kids. 

Michael and Dagon had some nice kids though. Some bragging was due.

Crowley and Aziraphale had talked about kids at one point, but found they preferred being godmothers with disposable income and loads of free time.

It was the two of them, and that was what Crowley wanted.

* * *

They got married. That was before it was legal, but they wanted to get married so they did. Beelzebub was Crowley’s “Best Mate.” Aziraphale’s Aunt Tracy gave her away, and her cousin Gabriel from the States, who Crowley had always regarded as a pompous twat had given them an absolutely massive cheque, big enough that Crowley had kissed him on his dumb square jaw.

They did it in the back of a pub in Soho, with friends from school and friends from work and friends from all the other places one acquires friends. Crowley wore leather trousers and a white tuxedo jacket. Aziraphale wore a vintage dress and satin gloves and a birdcage veil.

Crowley sobbed through reading her extremely embarrassing vows then bawled some more when Aziraphale read hers. They played Culture Club and George Michael and Queen. They drank wine straight from the bottle. Everyone got inordinately pissed except for Michael because she was six months pregnant. Hastur claimed he saw Beelzebub and Gabriel making out in the loo but Beelzebub violently denied it. 

It was the best party any of them had ever been to.

When the government gave the go ahead, Crowley and Aziraphale went down to the Council office and made it official, but that wasn’t the wedding that mattered. It was the one in the pub with the sticky floors and the overflowing champagne that was hazy with the biggest love Crowley thought any person on the planet had ever felt.

* * *

Crowley pulled into the driveway. Turned off the car. 

Aziraphale was in bed. Crowley knew as soon as she opened the door. It was after eleven, after all. The cottage was just as she thought it would be. Spotlessly clean, a single light on above the kitchen bench. It smelled wonderful. Aziraphale had almost certainly been making bread.

After slipping off her shoes she padded into the kitchen and had her suspicions confirmed. A round loaf of sourdough was wrapped in clear plastic wrap, ready to be toasted for breakfast with jam. She left the box of pastries beside it, a treat for the morning. She opened the fridge and the kitchen flooded with light. There, in a glass lock-and-lock box was the pumpkin ravioli. A bright pink post-it was affixed to the top of the container.

_Welcome home, my love. See you soon._

Crowley’s belly was loudly making its opinion known, but it could wait. She wanted to see Aziraphale. She placed her dinner back in the fridge and went up the stairs, two at a time. She didn’t turn on the lights, she didn’t have to. She could find her way around this place blindfolded.

She eased the bedroom door open. The curtains were drawn, and moonlight flooded the space. Crowley could see the outline of Aziraphale on the bed. She hadn’t gotten under the covers, had merely pulled a blanket over herself. Crowley’s heart did a spectacular dip, she knew instinctively that Aziraphale had waited for Crowley to come home to tuck in.

Aziraphale’s back rose and fell with shallow breaths. Crowley stood in the open doorway a moment to admire her. The soft waves of her hair, still as blond as the day Crowley had met her. Crowley had been covering up greys for eight years at this point, but her angel’s hair was still bright as sunshine. Her upturned nose, pillowed lips. Round cheeks. 

Soft arms and wide hips and a bottom that still sent Crowley reeling, much to Aziraphale’s amusement. All lightly covered with the blanket. Fuck, she loved her. From the minute she’d laid her booze-addled eyes on her. Aziraphale had always ever been the only one.

Crowley could’ve sworn she hadn’t made a single sound but Aziraphale stirred, and brought her hand up to lazily wipe at her eyes. “Crowley?” she said to the dark.

“S’me angel,” Crowley said. “I’m home.”

Crowley made to cross the room, climb up onto the bed, but she stopped in her tracks as Aziraphale pushed herself to sitting and the blanket slid off of her. 

“What,” said Crowley, the hinges of her jaw suddenly not quite working the way they should, “are you wearing?”

Aziraphale startled and immediately drew the open button up pyjama top around her. “Oh, you know. Nothing. Nothing of note. Pyjamas.” 

It wasn’t bright enough to see it, but Crowley could hear the blush on Aziraphale’s voice. But what Crowley had seen, in the dull moonlight wasn’t even in the same ballpark as _nothing of note_. She groped wildly for the lightswitch behind her, her mouth cracking into a grin.

The light snapped on, and she made eye contact with her beautiful and sleepy wife. “Lemme see,” she said, biting her lower lip.

Aziraphale’s face was very pink, and the flush ran down her neck, disappearing into the flannel collar of her nightshirt. “I don’t know. I feel a bit silly, now you’re here.”

“Really?” said Crowley incredulously. “Because I do not feel the least bit silly. Please, angel?”

Aziraphale pursed her lips, looked at the ceiling. “Well…” she started.

 _Well_ was good. _Well_ meant Crowley was three quarters of the way to convincing her. “Do I have to get down on my knees and beg? You know I will.” She took a step towards the bed.

“Wait!” Aziraphale said, holding a hand out. “Let me turn on the bedside lamp. Turn off the overhead.”

Crowley made a face at her.

“The bedside lamp is more flattering.”

Crowley threw up her hands but complied. As if a different light source could change her belief that Aziraphale was the most gorgeous creature to grace God’s green earth. When she turned back the light had dimmed, gave a soft yellow glow from the table beside the bed.

“Now?” Crowley asked. “Pretty please.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said. “Because you asked so nicely.” 

With soft fingers she drew open the front of her nightshirt and Crowley’s heart took a running leap and nearly burst out of her chest in some sort of daring escape. 

Lace. Black lace. A lingerie set that was doing somewhat impossible things to Aziraphale’s already impossibly perfect tits. Aziraphale usually favoured more utilitarian underthings that prioritized comfort. This did not look even remotely comfortable but it had also sent Crowley’s brain into overdrive.

“When’d you get that?” Crowley asked, her voice a husk of what it usually was.

“On the computer actually. A website. You’d have been very proud of me. The shop in the village didn’t really have anything like this in my size.” With that she got sheepish again, pulling the shirt around her front.

“Oh no no no no,” said Crowley, leaping forward and onto the bed. “Don’t do that.”

Crowley crouched on her knees, took Aziraphale’s hands in her own. 

“It was meant to be a surprise,” said Aziraphale.

“It was!” cried Crowley, eyes wide. “It is!”

“I meant to be awake when you got home, but you know. Can’t stay up past ten these days. You’d think I was seventy-five, not forty.” She laughed at herself wryly, then looked up under her dark lashes at Crowley, and Crowley was sunk.

“You do not look seventy-five, right now. Just let me get that out of the way.” Crowley was practically salivating. “Let me see again, angel.”

Aziraphale dropped her hands and let Crowley pull back the shirt. Crowley released a punched out breath. The lace was jet black, and expensive. Crowley could tell just from looking at it. French, probably. It curved over the top of Aziraphale’s breasts, dark flower petals and leaves, as if tattooed on. She could see through it, see the pink of Aziraphale’s nipples pressed into the weaving.

Pushing the shirt off of Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley leaned forward and kissed her. In that moment it hit her again how much she’d missed Aziraphale, how every night that week she’d had just the worst sleep because she couldn’t roll over in the middle of the night and breathe in Aziraphale’s sweet scent. 

Crowley moaned thickly into Aziraphale’s mouth as she cupped her cheeks, running her thumbs over the soft skin.

“Missed you, angel,” she whispered.

Aziraphale’s hands started to work at the waist of Crowley’s trousers, pulling out her shirt. Crowley could feel warm, soft palms on her waist, kneading the skin there.

Aziraphale was sleepy, Crowley could see it in her eyes. That, and the warm yellow light gave the whole thing a dreamlike quality that she couldn’t get enough of. Soft and slow, so Crowley could take Aziraphale in like the first time, like everything was new.

Lovely hands with blunt, practical nails were working on Crowley’s buttons now, pushing the red silk blouse down her arms. That left her in a white lace bralette, a gift from Aziraphale, one Christmas, some years ago.

Aziraphale was reaching over to the side, attempting to arrange the blouse on the nightstand, where Crowley had intended for it to be tossed inelegantly to the floor.

“Angel,” Crowley complained, annoyed at her split attention.

“That’s an expensive shirt,” Aziraphale responded, matching Crowley’s tone.

And Crowley loved it, her fussy angel. She surged forward and pressed her lips to Aziraphale’s, backed her down onto the bed. Aziraphale responded with a muffled “mhpf” and dug her fingers into Crowley’s hair. The kiss was filthy, open, wet and full of wanting. Another person might have been amazed that it could still be this good after all this time, but not Crowley, who didn’t know anything else. It had always been Aziraphale, it had _only_ been Aziraphale.

Drawing back to look at her wife, Crowley realized there was a problem.

“There’s a problem,” she said.

A little line appeared between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, the slightest frown came to her lips. “A problem?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, her hands drawing down the centre of Aziraphale’s chest. “The problem is I don’t want to take this off.”

Crowley nudged back, arranged herself between Aziraphale’s legs. She ran her hands over the silk and the lace of the bottoms, relishing the places where it cut curves into Aziraphale’s skin. “But I also really want what’s underneath it.”

Crowley didn’t wait for an answer. She bent down and let her tongue drag along the thin fabric between Aziraphale’s legs, and her angel let out a wanton moan. It only spurred Crowley forward, soaking the fabric, slick with spit, and she could taste Aziraphale through it.

Aziraphale moaned Crowley’s name, drew her fingers through curly red hair, pulling tendrils loose from it’s tie. She pushed her hips up into Crowley’s pink tongue and shuddered.

“Oh darling. Oh, missed you.”

Aziraphale's lovely, thick thighs were shaking on either side of Crowley’s head, tense with pleasure. Still, the lingerie was such a treat, it would be a shame to take it off. Then Crowley had an idea, and silently cheered herself for her own brilliance. Without taking them off, Crowley pulled the fabric of the panties aside, exposing Aziraphale’s clit, her opening, and continued her attentions.

“Crowley, oh, love.”

All of Aziraphale’s words sent shocks of wonderful electricity down Crowley’s spine. She loved being down here, taking care of her angel in one of the ways she knew best. 

“Come up, Crowley. Please, love.” Aziraphale’s request was breathless, and Crowley reluctantly obeyed.

“Hiya,” she said, grinning, placing kisses on Aziraphale’s soft belly and between her tits as she crawled up. “Tell me what you want, love.”

“Oh, I-” Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered in a way that could be described as coquettish, her beestung lips held in a practiced expression of innocence, when Crowley knew it was anything but.

“Come on, angel,” goaded Crowley, her hand coming up to cup Aziraphale’s breast. Fuck, she looked good.

“Perhaps you could…” Aziraphale’s eyes darted to the side, to the nightstand.

“Oh!” said Crowley. It had been a while, but why not? It felt like a special occasion.

In a box under the nightstand was Crowley’s harness, her cock. Theirs, really.

Crowley shucked off her trousers and pants, her socks. She pulled the bralette over her head and pulled out her hair tie - she knew how Aziraphale liked her hair down, wild curls cascading over her shoulders.

She stepped into the harness, adjusted the straps, looked up at her wife, eyes glinting. 

“You don’t need anything to help this along, do you?” Crowley asked, voice dark. “No, you’re so ready for it, angel. Nice and wet and ready.”

Aziraphale moaned and Crowley leaned over her.

“Look so good. How’d I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one,” Aziraphale breathed out.

Then Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s panties to the side, and slid into her like it was no effort at all. 

She loved the way Aziraphale’s body moved, the curves of her, the way Crowley’s hands bit into her flesh. Crowley gave into temptation and drew down one of the straps of the bra, exposing one of Aziraphale’s tits, the hard, pink nipple. Crowley took it in her mouth, let her tongue roll over it as she rocked into her.

Aziraphale wasn’t talking now, just moaning, mewling, her hands on Crowley’s waist and hair and breasts.

Crowley didn’t stop her efforts, and began to circle the bud of Aziraphale’s clit with her fingers, speeding up and slowing down. 

She kissed Aziraphale, could taste what was building up deep inside her. 

“Come on, angel,” she said, “wanna feel you come.”

Aziraphale began to shudder, her hips fucking up onto Crowley’s, helpless whines leaving her lips. Her golden, well-fucked angel.

Aziraphale was still panting when she said, “Take that off, and get up here.”

“Bossy.” Crowley pulled out of Aziraphale, and undid the straps of the harness expertly, tossing it aside. Aziraphale had shifted down the bed, and her hand drifted to Crowley’s thigh, tugged at it. 

“Come here, my love,” she murmured, the remnants of her orgasm colouring her tone.

Crowley reddened, because Aziraphale could still affect her that way. She lifted herself over Aziraphale, and straddled her face.

“Oh,” cooed Aziraphale. “Delicious.” Then she pulled Crowley onto her, and ate her out like a fucking champion.

Crowley had to brace herself on the headboard to keep from collapsing completely. Aziraphale took her apart with her tongue and just the suggestion of teeth and well-timed moans that made Crowley turn inside out.

“Ah, fuck, angel. Fuck, you’re so good at this. How did you get so bloody good at this?”

She could feel Aziraphale’s smug smile against her lit-up cunt.

Her angel pulled her down harder, and she tilted Crowley’s hips to change the angle. She always knew what to do, always. 

Crowley was coming and the pulses were ricocheting through her torso, thighs twitching, arms failing. Aziraphale held her tight as she rode it out, humming contentedly when the spasms calmed.

Crowley fell to the side onto the bed, and Aziraphale smiled over at her, her face a mess. The lace and silk not laying as flat now. Pushed to the side. Wet. Debauched. 

“You’re a miracle,” said Crowley, finally finding her words.

Aziraphale grinned and her eyes crinkled in the corners. “You are.”

Blue eyes. Those blue eyes still got her. Like the very first time. Stopped her in her tracks. Crowley’s heart was fit to burst.

What stupid luck. What a wonderful fucking life.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://bestoftheseekwill.tumblr.com/)/[twitter](https://twitter.com/_seekwill)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Flannel and French Lace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347527) by [musegnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome)




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